


Cocaine Diary

by FrauKatzen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drugs, Original work - Freeform, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrauKatzen/pseuds/FrauKatzen
Summary: She smoked cigarettes like it was the end of the world for nearly five years. She recovered from smoking. Picked it up again. Quit for the last time. Started drinking like a fish at seventeen and never stopped to this day. Started binge eating as a child. Gained so much weight she hated herself. Lost so much weight she grew depressed. No one loved her. Everyone did. Gained it all back plus more.





	Cocaine Diary

“I have two-hundred,” she typed out. Sent. 

A ding a minute later. “lol. K.”

She lay back on her unmade bed and stared at the ceiling fan. Noticed how it was dirty on the edges. Probably wouldn’t clean it anytime soon but imagined ways she could get up there to do it.

The day before, pay day—this was what she was going to spend her money on. Not travel. Not saving for her own place. 

It was fun, though. Her friends liked to do it, and, while it never exactly ended well in the past, it certainly never ended in tragedy. 

This was her year of exploration. Most people did it in college—she did back then, too. Back then it was sex and alcohol and cigarettes and trespassing so often she was shocked she had never been arrested.

This year was drugs. Other drugs. Hard drugs. The words floated around in her mind like a bug in a balloon. The idea there, never really leaving, irritable and undeniable, trying to push out the cushy sides. Made her feel cool and fun and a million other things someone in their mid-twenties needed to feel. The fact that she had done them. Had them. Had access to them in ways in which others pretended to be jealous. Maybe they were jealous. She certainly would be. Now she just wondered if it was some bad luck that she moved next door to a friendly drug dealer. Maybe it was just bad luck she was an idiot.

She always knew she was a little different, and that scared her. She was impulsive. Obsessive. Addictive.

She smoked cigarettes like it was the end of the world for nearly five years. She recovered from smoking. Picked it up again. Quit for the last time. Started drinking like a fish at seventeen and never stopped to this day. Started binge eating as a child. Gained so much weight she hated herself. Lost so much weight she grew depressed. No one loved her. Everyone did. Gained it all back plus more.

Picked up drugs on the tail end of the smoking habit. Hard drugs.

Cocaine. Molly. Just those two. Marijuana was already a staple of her weekly life. Just an herb.

Molly was an impulsive one—given to her by some white girl with dreadlocks in a warehouse on the west side. Some rave. That night she was so drunk and high she barely remembered the overwhelming euphoria before blacking out for three hours. Lost her phone. A stranger found it and gave it back in the morning, the shame heavy in her heart.

The cocaine was different. Premeditated. Taken so, so hesitantly the first time. Made her intense. Made her fun. Made her feel good.

She gave it up for a long time. Did it a handful of times. This time. This time, she had two-hundred.

She visited her neighbor and he gave her a gram for each hundred. Right off the kilo, he said. See that edge, there? Cool, she said.

She wondered what her fifteen-year-old self would think, the one who wanted to kill herself but really just wanted attention and the one who thought five percent of teens did drugs when asked on a survey in health class. 

She left, then. Got weed for her roommate first. Two birds one stone. Coke. One bag for each gram. Put one up in a box on her dresser, the other in the change purse section of her wallet. For later. 

She got ready for a wedding and then went to it, coke still in her wallet, silent, but she was very aware of it.

One thing she did know was that she couldn’t do coke in front of her family—too risky. She waited until after, went to a friend’s house, did it for six hours, then drove home high out of her mind. She wasn’t even in her body. She had never felt like this before. 

She got home and writhed around on her bed, euphoria rushing through her in sick waves.

Four hours later, she wanted to die, so depressed and sick, and bleeding from her vagina. But, hey, she was five pounds less than the day before, so she was still losing weight. And the Advil she took sort of helped. 

Normally so talkative, she could barely say bye to her roommate leaving for work. Called off the next day at work, waking up crying and tired.

She still had a gram left, though. More than that. Even after selling over half of it to friends and snorting so much of it she had to blow her nose for hours and worried she would start to feel ants crawling under her skin.

But maybe, maybe, she will be able to control it better next time. What she will do is go to the gym on Thursday and probably forget to stretch. She will go to work on Tuesday and tell no one what she did.

The shame will never completely go away, probably. But that’s life, and it’s short, and maybe she just needs to move away.

Maybe she doesn’t even know what she wants. Maybe she wants to die, fifteen and lonely.

Maybe that girl is me, and maybe this is a confession. Maybe this is all fiction.

What it is is a release. A relief. And maybe someone out there, someday, will read this, and feel less alone or understand or look at this and think, “I would never be that girl,” or, “I was that girl,” or, “I am that girl.”


End file.
